In Fine, Omens nos Meminisse Potestis Facere
by doritoFace1q
Summary: Stories passed through time get warped, and the tales of the fallen men and women were no different.


**I'm on a school trip in Victoria right now (whose genius idea was it to hand out 3-5 major assignments and make them due the week before exams and then send us off to an island immediately afterwards?) and we visited the Ross Bay cemetery yesterday, which was pretty cool, and I got a bunch of ideas :)**

**The graveyard'll be a significant point in my next canonverse fic, which is going to have a shit ton of headcanons, so keep an eye out for that!**

**(The title's a translation of the last paragraph in the story, btw.)**

* * *

It's been many years – two hundred years, almost. Two hundred years since the last Titan had fallen. One hundred and eighty since the Walls had fallen. One hundred and fifty-four since the last member of the Survey Corps had breathed her last breath.

The war had faded into stories and legends for most people – stories passed through time get warped, and the tales of the fallen men and women were no different. Some days, every other enemy was a Titan Shifter, with a new, terrible power. Other days, all members of the Survey Corps were massive, winged monsters, wielding blades of justice against the Titans, who fell like flies beneath them.

In the end, it made no difference. The stories weren't told for the dead. They were told for the sake of those that remained.

The graveyard is one of the few things remaining from the Second Era. It sits where it always sat during the hundred years of fear, a field of grassy green, once an impressive stretch of land, now no bigger than the average family farm's pasture. The grooves in the ground where the towering Walls had once stood remained, stone mixing with the grass – thinner, not as green as other places – and dirt – dry and crumbly, still weak from its century pressed into the ground by the hundreds of pounds of stone.

The graves are the same from all those years ago – thin markers of white stone, laid out in neat rows, basic information carved into them. A name etched above a branch and squad, one of four symbols carved into the top of the stone: the rarest, a unicorn turned to the side, mane flowing in an invisible wind; a vine, perhaps, two roses entwined amongst the thorns; the rarest, two swords crossed over a simple shield; and, the most common, two wings, crossed over each other, their meaning long since forgotten by the generations living off their sacrifices.

The graves are closer together than one might expect – space had been scarce, then, all bodies, save those of the most rich and powerful, being cremated and stored in public tombs, shelves stretching for miles underground. Soldiers were no exception. The markers, entirely ceremonial, serving no purpose other than to bring closure to families and an easy way to count the dead, would be pressed into the ground over the ashes, buried in a shallow hole in the ground. Squads that fell as one would be buried as one, names etched into the stone beneath the branch symbol and squad position.

Officers, however, were different. The mausoleum in the centre of the graveyard, a deceptively small building, long since sealed, unmovable marble slabs placed over the iron doors that had closed with the coffin of the last Squad Leader, lead down into the cellars of the graveyard, rows upon rows of coffins sealed into the walls, housing the final resting place of countless fighters, keeping the vessels of the souls who'd offered their all to humanity. A decorative plaque, placed outside the building less than a year after the last body had been placed in it, detailing the role of the men and women resting inside, a sign of respect, of reverie, of deepest gratitude.

The sign receives no attention, and the building few visitors.

The markers, plain and identical in every sense of the world, are glanced over, the plaques and memorials placed throughout the space all but invisible.

The statues, however, are different.

There are few, but they are noticeable, shining lighthouses amongst the blank sea of graves. Detailed figures stand upon white marble blocks, polished, cleaned, and treated weekly. A Titan stands in the far corner of the cemetery, darks strands of hair hanging over a lipless face and pointed ears, fists raised in a bold, strong position. The statue bears no markings save for a name, and the words: _Do I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?_

The toes of the Titan have been rubbed to the point of wearing away, marble shining beneath the sun.

A bespectacled soldier stood atop a simple, yet beautiful, pedestal, stone cape flowing realistically in a long-gone wind, ponytail just as messy and as wild as it had been all those years ago, face turned to the sky, a marble hand shielding their goggled eyes. Their name was carved into the pedestal, a squad position carved below, and seven other, smaller names carved beneath that. A quote rested on this statue as well: _The only true wisdom is knowing you know nothing_. The letters of the names are smudged and blurred, rubbed smooth by the years of affectionate, thankful pats.

A pair of goggles, identical to the one the statue wore, lay on top of the stand, at the goggled soldier's feet: The metal of the frames is rusted and nearly corroded, the glass of the lenses cracked and stained, leather of the straps rotted and moldy. The eyepieces were nearly destroyed, slowly ruined through centuries of weather and sun, held together by what was surely pure willpower from beyond the grave.

Nobody moved them.

The two largest statues stood on opposite sides of the graveyard, facing each other from across the acres of land between them. The first man was short, hands tucked into his pockets, strands of hair and cravat rustling in a breeze that hadn't blown for centuries, expression as calm and surly as it had been in life, though there was a certain amount of emotion in his stone eyes – a form of nostalgia and longing, shimmering above a fierce blaze of determination that hadn't been seen for almost two hundred years. Flowers, wreaths, notes, and cleaning supplies were piled around the base of the statue's pedestal, high enough to nearly cover the words etched into the marble: two sets of names beneath a squad position, and, above, not a single name, but, rather, two words.

_Humanity's Sword_.

His gaze was fixed on the statue across the graveyard: a tall man, hair styled neatly, bolo tie resting on his chest, head turned slightly to the side, gaze fixed on the space where the Wall had once stood, blocking the blue of the sky and green of the open fields, faraway look in his regal eyes looking past the towns and villages that were now scattered over the countryside, over the very land where he'd lead hundreds of soldiers to death and victory alike. There were countless names, so tiny they could barely be read, etched into the marble block he stood upon.

_Humanity's Shield_.

There they stood, as they had been for centuries – the leader and the follower, the liege and the subject, the host and the warrior. The Commander and the Captain.

The flames that had been extinguished for the sake of the countless lives prospering, starting, and ending across the island.

There they stood, and there they would stand, weathering through the rain that would pelt them like bullets, the wind that would batter them relentlessly, the snow that would pile high on their shoulders, the weight of the icy flakes nothing compared to what had once rested on the very same shoulders, bearing the weight of humanity's hopes, dreams and fate.

There they stood, the Captain's gaze fixed on the Commander, an expression of acceptation and masked pain on his face, watching as the man turned away from him, looking to the sky, the open fields, the freedom he'd given him, and all those that would come after them. The freedom that they would both cherish and fear, and learn to accept. The freedom that would eventually become the norm as the cages they were trapped in would be knocked down, turning the years of imprisonment nothing but a bad memory, a blot on history, a story to tell children and friends in the years to come.

Stories passed through time get warped, and the tales of the fallen men and women would eventually lose meaning, the simple tombstones and long-gone ashes in the earth becoming nothing but a weekend activity, a destination for a school group, a curio for people to gawk at as they passed, the two men standing over it, guarding their soldiers in death, putting faces to the thousands of names.

_In the end, all we can do is remember_.

* * *

***chucks Marley/Endgame Arc out window* We don't need that!**

**Also, FUCK MIDNIGHT SUN.**


End file.
